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“[...]yo escribo porque el druido, / bajo el rumor de sílabas del himno, / encina bien plantada en una página, / me dió el gajo de muérdago, el conjuro / que hace brotar palabras de la peña. / Los nombres acumulan sus imágenes. / Las imágenes acumulan sus gaseosas, / conjeturales confederaciones. / Nubes y nubes, fantasmal galope / de las nubes sobre las crestas / de mi memoria.” -Octavio Paz

August 20, 2014

Yes it’s late here. Unrelated; here is mexico city

Pride land

A city looks different at night

It’s a glow worm
coming down the metro tunnel

you spot exotic tequilas
made from sinning crystal

strewn across fields,
glimmering poppies

that sprout across the erect skyline
and haze instead of mountains

As you place yourself
in the role of penthouse

the skyline is never so
threatening as a stranger,

perhaps a Colombian swamp,
that you lose

in the convenience store distance
The cups king rules here,

any desert of relationships
that bridles your wild taxis,

like these packs of hyenas
held people this far into the dark

You are an antelope, a wildebeest,
some animal I’ve never heard of

The sky crackles
in a tire fire, you scream

1 week ago
21 notes

July 31, 2014

Gotta stop getting the metro funk

Know you to speak

That the rivers wash away our wounds
There are some with whom I speak
poetically Others with whom
pragmatically And

some suffer my precision
Else I am another one of a thousand
myselves, scrimshaw herons
clattering gibberish for apples- don’t we all

I want to see stars more, more
Machado in tilled brushlands,
the murderous Castilla,
sews up himself with shrubs

The bones branches singing odes
and benedictions for the belabored
in things I’m not sure of
you, I can’t know to speak to you

1 month ago
2 notes

July 21, 2014 pt.1

I wrote a couple new things in a chopperia called Rayuela

Grafting as amateur sculpture

It smelled of thousands of years for
a second that I climbed out of the metro

Five men cut down, the work of two leaves
littering laymen-blue crosswalks

between the scent of evergreens and the house
of the goose downed lines of salted earth

set out to dry the scorched eye sockets
Peaches and tearing out IVs make up my meals-

I am nurtured by blood spilled before time
All such a waste

1 month ago
2 notes

July 5, 2014

Last night, the stay here

Psychicanalysis

I survive here on beer;
you on sawdust and
dried childhood trauma
pressed by desk legs
into moving pallets
to carry away all of you
concerned strangers
Not that they recognize you,
they carry miniatures
of captured tearings,
those shied away from
every once reflected before
in those memoirs

Cast out onto the ocean
foam I wave away
repressed magpies
and sink saws to settle a city

1 month ago
47 notes

June 27, 2014 pt3

Star sightings

for a long country, there 
are more cities in the sky or

Perhaps I have been spun 
as we pull away and

the voice quivers the sky 
the voice quivers

between sparrow beaks
and I think I’m flying

all of my word’s migrations 
But then the sky was ground

again and all the fracturing stars 
huddled to break my monologue

2 months ago
1 note

June 27, 2014 pt1

Wrote a lot on the plane


Doubting under the hills

Above the haze is an abrupt
distinct space- aggressively empty
and offensively jagged, the peaks
defy hateful condensed intrusion

Jarring amethyst shards,
in countless pieces,
decorate their bases,
spiteful and miniscule

What does occupying this average
raised space cost the standard
shape of man? Ideally, we imagine
ourselves smoldering hyperbolically

through the sky, but there’s nothing
preservative about infinity- we
waste away slowly, underground,
to a jazzy stamp and the darkness

2 months ago
2 notes

June 23, 2014

gonna go from here soon

Forgetful

I always forget ‘humid thoughts’,
and ’ I don’t know what she says
and I entrust myself to her’
I always forget the reaching out

aspect of solitude
I always forget long strides
in termite powder ash
The gentle play

The difference between ruined footprints
and the graves I have seen
Maybe I’ve forgot what I look like
when you looked at me

once, maybe I forgot I never
saw you look at me
Dew, much like strangers, is
not as unknowable or unknown

Thousands of angels
of shattered glass bend
what they look, though,
through and we forget

2 months ago
2 notes

August 8, 2014

I wander looking

I wander looking
for you, without
looking for you

I nourish myself
on the essence of
black poplars and lost dreams

of rainy seasons set in
glass hallways
where their audience saw ever

-ything’s palms pressed
against the water
without warmth,

without washing
About my home
here the sidewalks grow

increasingly beset
with hounds who leave
their daytime footprints

in this misty recent cement
shell over the lake of soil
I sleep little

and wrapped in iron,
for all that it burns me
as well, as howls

and a caravan charge
the air, splinters
and shattered bayonets

Where it would carry me, I say not.
How we gird hopes
against the end!

2 weeks ago
3 notes

July 21, 2014 pt. 2

Here’s the second one


Bricolage and basket weaving

this park is glut with birds,
sick with so many

glass and stone and
paint and blood creatures

A fountain that doesn’t move
Hands hold all the flagpoles

so that they remember
which way is skyward

Most of the birds
have already forgotten

They’ve laced their claws
and bones into baskets

for their beaks
and orange blossoms, now

1 month ago
1 note
July 15, 2014

 turn on 

everything is turned off/ 
turn everything off/ 

everything gets turned off/ 
let’s start this 

from it’s beginning/ 
but carefully,

you only get so many beginnings 
/ two men, from a dream/ 

standing in the cumulus/ 
hiding 

in the heavens/ 
from the rain/ 

again

Art: “the art of conversation” Rene Magritte

July 15, 2014

turn on

everything is turned off/
turn everything off/

everything gets turned off/
let’s start this

from it’s beginning/
but carefully,

you only get so many beginnings
/ two men, from a dream/

standing in the cumulus/
hiding

in the heavens/
from the rain/

again

Art: “the art of conversation” Rene Magritte
1 month ago
152 notes

July 3, 2014

Think I hope I have a real living space, now

Hollow bird cages

I keep hearing the
same tune Crackling

paper stars litter
the subway Broken

violin strings, snapping
birds talons Empty sounds

of a crowd breaking on
glass stalls and miners

Falling stones of fair tickets,
cotton balls, sin-laden

stints in a drunken booth
The same song, sung out

like tiles crackling, pigeons
trapped in steel gutters

2 months ago
11 notes

June 27, 2014 pt2

Composing hymnals and mixing paints

the sky is stained with 
the descent of blue

If we head to 
the west, it is by way

of the clouds, 
of the peaks we skip, 
of feathers that call 
with the determined hands 
of the day

Of the heights
my ribs are broken

chess pieces The fit between  
the bleeding orange and

the triumphant return 
of the planets, their liturgies

2 months ago
22 notes

July 22, 2013

snifflingsailors:


Had a good sit tonight

talk forgiveness

Like a stray hand caught in
the ice at the back of your shed

you find forgiveness, coughing and retching.
It’s always born a little feeble

thing in the vicious walkways of
where you’ve been and hobbles along

after its progenitor a wavering shadow
wailing for a finger to point

it into strength. I don’t know why
I tell you this- I know you

listen, whether or not you’re here,
but mine has found its finger

and grips like cold railings in
the morning, misty with ghosts. It needs

a name, or it needs me to know its,
and maybe in your face idle with

looking away there’s a glimpse of, maybe
in your eyes there’s a pictogram growing to, maybe

in the hairs tucked behind your ear
there’s hiding a. Maybe

that’s the thing I needed
to talk forgiveness to you for

maybe. There’s a little bit of the name
for each of our forgiveness

in the features whom with we
maybe talking, talk forgiving

I wrote this awhile ago and I really like it and feel like it was under-seen. So here it is again!

2 months ago
3 notes